“That is my aunt’s title,” she said, with a faint, flickering smile. “My name is Olivia.” He looked at her for a moment gravely, and yet with a sort of troubled wistfulness; then he said, in as low tone as hers: “Olivia! Good-night, Miss Olivia!” Then he called to Bertie, waving his hand toward Olivia, and turning aside, strode into the dark lane that led to The Dell. “Oh! isn’t he coming to the Grange?” exclaimed Annie Penstone, as Bertie brought Olivia to them. “Isn’t he really coming? It’s too bad! I wanted to talk to him, to ask him all sorts of things! And you have had him all the way to yourself! Now that isn’t fair, is it, Mary? What did he talk about, Olivia?” “I don’t know,” said Olivia, dreamily. They found Aunt Amelia and Bartley Bradstone waiting for them in the hall, the former still simmering with excitement over the success of her concert, and the latter glaring sullenly, with suppressed rage and jealousy. All through the meal, which was a kind of “scratch” supper, while Annie and Mary and Bertie, all speaking very fast and at the same time, were giving the squire an account of the sensation Mr. Faradeane had created, Bartley Bradstone and Olivia sat in silence. Now and again he glanced at her thoughtful, dreamy face in a half watchful, half suspicious manner, but she seemed to be quite unconscious of his presence, and presently got up and went to the piano in the adjoining room and began to play softly. “That’s a sign that we can take ourselves off to the smoking-room; come and have a cigar,” said the squire, and as he passed Olivia, he gently patted her cheek. She put up her hand and took his and laid her face against it, but said nothing, and the two men left the room. “I shan’t smoke,” said Bertie, as he reached the door. “I shall stay and talk to these children,” nodding at Annie and Mary, but he glanced at Olivia as he spoke. Bartley Bradstone dropped into the chair the squire motioned him to, but he seemed uneasy and restless, and after a moment or two, he got up, and, clearing his throat, nervously, said: “I am glad we are alone, squire, for I wanted to speak to you on a--a private matter.” The squire glanced at him with a return of the apprehensive, hunted look in his eyes. “Yes! What is it? Wait a moment, till I have lit my cigar. Now,” and he seemed to pull himself together like a man prepared to receive bad news, or an unwelcome shock. Bartley Bradstone grew pale; he was evidently as ill at ease as the squire. “I--I want to speak to you about Miss Vanley--Miss Olivia,” he said. A tremor passed over the squire’s face, and he lowered his eyes. “About Olivia?” and his voice sounded dry and husky. “Yes,” said Bartley Bradstone. “I don’t suppose you have been blind to the--the fact that I sincerely admire, and--and, indeed, that I--well”--he stammered--“I love her, and I want you to give her to me for my--wife.”